


The We in Me

by WanderingSummerBreeze



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingSummerBreeze/pseuds/WanderingSummerBreeze
Summary: I have no summary. I don't know what the hell this is.





	The We in Me

It isn’t enough just to love someone. You have to like them. Like how they treat others; treat you. Like them when they wake in the morning, and drift to sleep at night. Trust them. Trust that they’ll do right by you, because in the end, doing right by you, means doing right by themselves. Trust that the love you give, and the like you give, which should be honest and true, is returned in kind.

But how, when you have all that, when you have the most perfect relationship that perfect can hope to be, when used with the word _relationship_ , how can the _we,_ survive the _me_?

When you’re separated from your partner for an extended period of time, your single mind clouds over your couple mind. You forget, in the bright light of day, as your running down the street to catch that ever-coveted cab, that you’re a _we._ Because in the day, when you make your calls, and you take your business meetings between lattes, you have _me_ brain.

But night - the _we_ comes at night. When the world is quite and you flick off all the lights in the apartment, save the hard-burning bed-side lamp, the _we_ calls after the _me._ Begs it to turn around. Begs it to come back. And you do. You crawl into bed, the high thread European sheets gently molding around your form. You remember how he molds to you; of how you fit perfectly in the curve of his body as his arms wrap around your waist; a welcoming prison that comforts and protects as it whispers memories across your goose-raised flesh, pulling you into an unconsciousness, filled with lips grazing, hand caresses and that slow movement of flesh on flesh; him inside you, waking every sleepy nerve and making you feel alive. Truly alive.

At night, you reach for the phone, but your hand lingers, floats somewhere between the _me_ and _we._ He’s working, the _me_ says. Don’t bother him; you pull your hand back, sinking further into the down pillows, turning on your side, grabbing hold of the pillow and clutching it tight, as if he were right beside you in this moment. Your eyes don’t leave the phone as the cradle shows your reflection in the soft light; you look tired. Sad.

Eyes close tightly, fighting off tears, missing him; missing the day, because you miss him less when you have things to do. In the day, there’s no time for sudden flashes of thought, his _I love you_ ’s caressing your ear, just before he takes the lobe between his lips; sucking softly. There’s no time to hear your giggle reverberate between your ears, or feel his smile against your skin, as you do.

A text lights up the phone, but a quick glance at his words, distracts you but a little, when you’re choosing out your latest outfit. The _me_ throws out an _I’ll check later_ at the illuminated plastic.

But _later_ holds off and pushes on, past dinner time and well past drinks with friends, until you can barely hear it gather its luggage, waving goodbye and just before the door shuts behind its lingering hope as the flick of a finger, extinguishes the bed-side lamp.

That’s the problem. The longer you’re apart, the more the _me_ takes hold, takes up residence in your mind, effectively evicting the _we._ No one ever means it to. Time just carries on, and what can we do, but keep up with its steady beat?

In a month, you no longer think of _we_ , when your fingers cross your sensitive flesh, but a nameless face, pushing into you as you drag nails down an imaginary back. You no longer see his beautiful manhood, hard and ready for only you, but something else. Something that will do. Do for now. Do for tonight.

 

But sometime after the _we_ has taken that late-night greyhound bus to the place where former lovers leave their bodies, to become faceless ghosts, you find his picture in a long-forgotten filing cabinet. A photo you stored away in the far recesses of your mind, and you find yourself being called back into the here and now and suddenly the conversations your _me_ is having, becomes something akin to sitting in a week-long lecture on the importance of arithmetic in civil service, and you need the _we_ because it would make the world, that has fallen flat all around you, far more interesting. Far more – colourful.

But you grab your clutch, and politely say your goodnights, and as you open the restaurant door and enter into the city night, you can feel the doors in your mind, gently being nudged from their hitch; windows finally cranking open to allow the breeze though.

And as you walk home, you spot the place he once grabbed you, on a whim, and pulled you in for a kiss that had you on your toes, with your body pressed tightly against his. Or the store window, where he pointed out the best diamond that would look great around your neck, and you bought him the watch, with nothing engraved on the back, save _Our Time_.

The cab ride, with the lights of the city passing by, like digits on the meter, cause a smile to cross your features, recalling the time he pushed your skirt up, and his fingers found your wet heat, in the backseat. Unbridled passion on the leather, as he held you tightly, shielding you from the prying eyes of the driver, as the world shook around you.

You trace your lips with the pad of your thumb, the ghost of his kiss, warming and cooling you, the shivers crawling across your skin, tightening your nipples and causing your thighs to clench.

You rush through the lobby, desperate to hear his voice over the phone; the need to hear nothing of the city, or the world - only him. The black and white marble walls, suddenly burst into shades of red and golds, as you fight to get all that is _you_ , back.

The key turns in the lock, and your new Chanel bag drops to the floor as you close the door behind you. You turn the light on, shrugging out of your coat, then you still. The light on the eggshell door changes, and your brow furrows.

It almost feels like half-speed. Like the world has slowed, and you can almost watch in some otherworldly, foggy window, as your fingers release the coat, damning it to the barren, pine floor below.

You turn in time with the skirt of your dress, pushing through the air like an arrow through water.

And just like that, the _we_ throws open the door, and tosses the _me_ out into the street, baggage and all. He doesn’t speak, but as you both rush forth, taking each other in an embrace, and the world falls away, you wonder how you could have ever thought life could be anything that what it is.

Us.


End file.
